


good at this (everything)

by Aicosu



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Porn, Complete, Dominant Allura, Dominant Lotor, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jallura, James fucks allura and then some hahah, James keeps up with Allura, Jotura, Masochism, NSFW, Oneshot, Polyamory, Resolved Sexual Tension, The rebound our Princess deserves, Threesome - F/M/M, Voice Kink, degradation kink, jotor, no ones gonna read this its cool XD, tries to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15718980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aicosu/pseuds/Aicosu
Summary: Allura finds something familiar in James Griffin. He lets her.





	1. good at this (everything)

He’s not bad at this.  
  
He’s not bad at anything.

Things come easily to him, just as she did. And maybe that’s because life comes easily to him. Rich, young, smart, right time, right place, luck, privilege, whatever you wanted to call it, it wasn’t something he didn’t acknowledge. Opportunities weren’t lost on him.   
  
But he didn’t waste them either. Damn it.

He worked hard, or at least as hard as he had to. And he was proud of that. Arrogant? Maybe when he was younger, sure. He wasn’t perfect.  
  
He was just good (at everything.)  
  
Except for this.

“A-an-ah,”  
  
Her face cringes, hair matted to her cheek. Her hand reaches out to grasp the edge of the supply shelf, knee bending, moving.  
  
Different angle, different angle.  
  
He stares as his tongue moves, using his hands to hold her hips tight to his face. It’s tough to shift her further back against the wall when her legs are on his shoulders like this, but he manages it by sinking further onto his knees, ignoring the pain in his heels.

His tongue dips further into the heat of her cunt and she bucks.  
  
“Yes!”

Better.

Not good, just better.

When her hands delve into his hair he can’t help but close his eyes. He swirls lewd gestures and smells pretty, floral scents that have no earthly comparison. It’s cupcakes and candles. Sweat and sugar. He groans. God, she tastes, just, _unreal._  
  
_Focus, focus, focus._

He reprimands himself as slick slides past his lips and pearls on his chin, leaking down his neck and into his flight suit. The sensation is mirrored in his pants, hard cock dripping precum down his thigh.  
  
He could hold out for a bit longer, maybe, and worst come to worst he could take care of himself later when he got back to the barracks.  
  
She can’t though.

It’s faster than yesterday. He’s flooded with comparisons, with judgment, with questions, even as he’s flooded with her. Damn it, damn it.

He presses her back into the wall, opening his eyes to make sure it's good, to make sure she squeals, to make sure he’s got this right, that’s he’s aced this test.  
  
It’s not as loud as yesterday. Her calves flex at his head, her chest heaves and releases, her cry is going to be silent.  
  
No, come on, come on—let him do it.

Let him be good at this. He could be good at this.  
  
He slides a hand up to her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple to get her hips to rock onto his lips. He exhales hot, rolls his tongue from bottom to top.  
  
Allura’s eyes open and close, her pace is erratic, and she moans. Not silent anymore.

“Lotor—!”  
  
James closes his eyes. His hips move against nothing as he helps her finish, finishing himself too. The stiff pulse of his cock, cumming, makes his lips and tongue go lazy. They slow, gradually. Softly almost. A stark comparison to how they started; reckless and crazed.

He could be good at this.

He could be good at being someone else.

 

* * *

 

He’s almost late to his Thursday drill.  
  
He isn’t _almost_ anything.

“Where have you been?”  
  
“Lunch.”

Nadia looks at him with enough suspicion that he unconsciously wipes his sleeve against his lips.  
  
“Are you sayi—”  
  
“I’m here, let’s go.” He tells her. Tells all of them. His team is staring at him.  
  
But he knows his uniform is on correctly. That the slick glitter like sweat the Altean princess leaves behind has been washed thoroughly off from his skin. He knows they couldn’t possibly know. Couldn’t suspect.  
  
_He_ hadn’t even thought about it that hard.  
  
Not that there's anything to think about. It is what it is. Which is nothing. Or it’s nothing to her. To him, it’s just—an experiment. A test. A challenge. Or maybe it’s nothing. It certainly isn’t anything that holds any weight. None of his relationships ever had, the garrison, himself, that always came first. It was more important. That’s why he never dated within his own squadron.  
  
And yeah, this was a break in that rule—except it wasn’t, because she wasn’t his squadron.  
  
She was Allura. Princess of Altea. Paladin (officer?) of Voltron. General maybe.  
  
He reported to her.  
  
So—yeah, then yes, this was breaking his own rules (not _the_ rules.) Fine. Granted.

Alright, there’s actually a lot to think about.  
  
He grunts against the ground, elbows shaking on a pushup.  Beside him, Ina pauses her workout to consider him. He ignores her, continuing his rep. His stomach lurches and the arches of his feet strain. He’s overextending himself.

He’d just finished a different exercise. One he’d had nearly every day for the past two weeks.

That sounds like a lot.

He almost thinks about asking Ina to calculate how many hours that is, just to have the stats in his head the next time the Princess calls on him. Or well, not him, but _him._

He knows about it.

Sort of.

After the dust cleared on Sendak’s invasion he’d slammed down all the filed reports on their returning officers and their new Altean allies and tried to make sense of everything. It had been as equally enlightening as it had been frustrating.  
  
For one thing, Keith still didn’t know how to file a damn mission log correctly. And he suspected that Pidge, Katie Holt, filed in everyone else’s reports for them. A copy-paste cover-up with words and names repeated in places they shouldn't be. (Really Hunk, your brother _Matt_? Don't think so.)   
  
Secondly, the information did nothing but make him realize how much more was out there. How much more he needed to catch up on. To see. To be apart of.  
  
The basic concepts were easy. Imperial military forces conquering words. Sure. Battle specific details and outcomes. Easy. Betrayal. Yeah, anyone could understand that.  
  
Heartbreak. 

Of course.  
  
“And then he sorta went nuts.” Lance had said. They’d been looking over the MFE’s hangar. It had been an hour after he’d heard the name for the second time. His fingers had still been wet.  
  
“What was he like?” He asked quietly.  
  
“I dunno, nuts?”  
  
It hadn’t been helpful.

But he could glean what he was like. The Prince. That’s what Allura had written in her own report. She never wrote the name.  
  
She just screamed it.

He should be angry.

He’s a replacement. Tapped to play a game he hadn’t started. A second string underdog told to sit, stay, beg. He should be pissed.

He’s not.

James has never been one to falter when passed a baton. No, that’s not it. He’s never been _passed_ a damn baton. He ran marathons not relays. He's a single-player not a team one.

He’s never had to fill roles. Never had to pick up any slack. He never had to prove anything. He’s never had to meet a standard. 

He _was_ the damn standard.

It’s new. Foreign. Alien.

He’s used to being approached. Used to being called or texted, asked for his attention. And he’s used to being bored by that. Used to slowly losing contact until they made dejected voicemail messages long after he’d left his affection in the dust of his recent rank ups, promotions, and test scores.

But now.

Now he watches her as he kisses her breasts, watches her eyes slide away from him, watches her sigh with a forlorn pining for something else.

And he just wants to give her that.

She has a study guide he can’t see, to a test she’s letting him take over and over. Rules to a system she hasn’t explained.

Multiple choice is in every one of her little yelps. Every little curl of his finger or flick of his tongue gets him a “yes” or a “no.” A “please,” “faster,” “again.” Flashcards he takes to heart.

Pulling all-nighters just to barely hang onto a winning streak.

It’s the hardest he’s ever fucking worked in his entire life.

After practice, flight practice not Allura practice, he’s sweating the pomade out of his hair and desperately toweling his neck to stop the lingering smell of sex.

Veronica catches him at the lockers, hands on her hips.

“James Griffin are you on drugs?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes.

Maybe. Biologically he could be in over his head. He tries to remember what his old science classes said about defensive animals with venom. Aphrodisiacs.

That was usually for predators.

“No, I’m not.”

Her gaze seems sharper through the distortion of her glasses.

“You’re distracted.”

“Prove it.”

He throws his towel (and the conversation) across the room. It lands perfectly into the laundry bin. He slams his locker shut.

He reports to the Princess that night, lets her crawl on top of him. Straddle him. He slides his hands up her sides to cup her ribs. His thumbs tease the curve of her breasts.

“Don’t,” She brushes them away and pins them above his head with one hand.  

The strength of her never stops surprising him.

“Understood.”

She kisses him. He keeps his eyes open to make sure she closes hers.

The night is spent learning. Feeling like he was falling short even when he was full of her and her of him.  
  
When she cums, when she’s spent, asleep, white curls nothing but clouds fit for an angel, James strokes her hairline and kisses her cheek.

He cleans up, folds the sheets on hers, turns out the lights, and leaves. The perfect soldier.

“You’re gonna get hurt.” 

Shiro figures it out.

James drops his book to the desk and his elbows to his knees, resigned that he wasn’t going to get away from this conversation. No one could get away from the Captain. Not with a look like that one. 

“No, I’m not.” It’s a simple argument that he knows the paladin won’t understand.  
  
James can still feel the soft kisses trailing down to his collarbones from early that morning. He can still hear the shivering in her whispers, can still feel the weight of her head in his hands, literally cradling a broken heart in his arms as she showered love for someone else on his skin.  
  
_‘I missed you, I missed you, I missed you,’_

How could anyone say _he_ was the one getting hurt?

“She’s taking advantage of you.”  
  
Gods, yes, she was.

Hearing Shiro say it makes him uncomfortable. Not morally, no, _physically_. His cock twitches at the mere words.

He knew it the minute she had pulled him away from his team. When she hadn’t even asked for help, just a move that he accepted — bait. A trap she had sprung. A pop quiz.  Him. He. _James Griffin._ Someone had taken advantage of _him_ when every day of his life he had the advantage over everyone. 

“I want her to.” He said.  
  
Shiro looks surprised.  
  
He stood, lifting his chin.  
  
“I like it.”

 

* * *

 

“Who?”

She didn’t even know his fucking name.

He stares at her, face flush, fire burning in his fingertips, wanting her so, so, bad, as she looks at him, confused. His hand reaches toward her.  
  
“James,” Keith repeated.  
  
Allura holds the mission brief tightly in her hands, staring at his open palm as he waits for it.

“Me.” He says. It takes everything in him not to stutter. He’s shaking. Sweating. It’s so fucking hot.  
  
_It turns him on._    
  
She eyes him with suspicion.  
  
“You—your name is Griffin.” She points out, elegant brow lifting. “You’re officer _Griffin_.” She says again. And he finds it funny that she’s the one pointing it out when she had been knowingly calling him Lotor for a month now.  
  
He actually smiles, he can’t not, it feels so good. Everything in him is tingling.  
  
She didn’t even know his fucking _name_.  
  
“James Griffin.” Keith sighs. “Humans have two names, remember? Griffin is his surname.”  
  
Allura looks frozen, staring at him.

He takes the folder gently, dropping it to his side. 

“Have I been saying the wrong thing?” She asks.  
  
“No.” He says, eyes level with her.

They don’t talk about it behind closed doors. They don't talk about anything, ever. 

But he works his ass off that day. He slides her onto his cock, sitting her on his lap, and buries himself in her breast. Her arms wrap around his head, pulling him close, screaming with abandon in the safety of her Blue Lion.

She’s above him, literally and figuratively. Out of his league. Out of his tiny, earth world. A goddess of a place he will never see, never understand.  She’s a goal, a score, an endgame he will never, ever reach.

But damn, god, the _trying_ just felt so, so good.

Close to the edge, her lips caught in his, he turns her face and licks her cheek to her ear. 

“Say my name.”  
  
Allura freezes, her languid body going taut.  
  
“Say it.”  
  
“Stop it.”  
  
Her thighs squeeze him, her hands scrabble on his shoulders, slowing their bounce.    
  
“Say my name,” He whispers again. “Princess.”  
  
She groans at first, the title a shortcut he kept in his pocket for easy wins. A trigger reaction for a trigger-happy player.  
  
But then her eyes open and she sees him, him as he is, and wriggles from his grasp.  
  
“Griffin, stop—”  
  
“No,”  
  
“James—!”  
  
“No,” He shakes his head.

And for the first time he watches her frown knowingly, watches a pretty pink, color the confronted shame as she realizes what he’s asking.  
  
“D-don’t,” She stretches long in his arms even as her hips rub her clit on his pelvis. Her hands hide her face.  
  
He pulls them down, smacks his hips into her ass, slides her against him and repeats himself.   
  
“Say it.”  
  
“L-Lotor,”  Tears squeeze down her cheeks."Lotor!"

But she sounds relieved. Sounds breathless and pleased. Sounds _good._  
  
It's terrible. He loves it.  
  
Allura’s palms fall on his chest, breasts bobbing as she starts to rut, trying to go faster. He acts on the wordless demand. James gathers her up in his arms and turns, presses her against the pilot's chair, and fucks her into it.  
  
She wraps her arms around his neck, yells in his ear. Says that name, again and again.  
  
“Good, Princess, yes, I got you.” He whispers, kissing the crown of her head, “That’s good.”  
  
She comes first, just like he wants.  
  
He pulls out, sinking to his knees on the metal floor with his cock still hard. Still wet. 

Her fingers caress his head as he kisses her naked chest down to her belly button.  
  
“Thank you.” She whispers.  
  
James lays his head in her lap, panting, heart full, swollen. Accomplished. Better.  
  
Good.

 

* * *

  
  
He’s not possessive.  
  
A tool, even a good one, doesn’t get jealous.  
  
There’s nothing to be jealous of, even. It’s not the right word. Anxious maybe.

It’s not about Lance’s childish flirting either.

Whatever it is that drew her to him in the first place, the other boy doesn’t have.  
  
And while Lance eyes him with suspicion and corners him in halls, boasting about memories he shares with the Princess, or experiences James knows he won’t and can’t ever have—

James knows there are things he understands about Allura that Lance never will.

He knows her better than anyone, maybe, without knowing _about_ her at all. 

It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know if Altea is a planet or a country. That he didn’t know she was seventy-six years old. Or that he’s not sure if Princess means Queen when there are no other monarchs left. 

He knows that she bites her knuckles when she gets fucked. He knows that she kisses his eyelids when he's closed them in concentration. He knows that for all her strength, she's still so gentle. For all her pain, she's still so kind. He knows that she was in love. That she’s still in love.  
  
_“I love you, I love you, I love you,”_  
  
“I love you too,” He says back, just to hear her sigh in relief. Just to see her happy.   
  
And before, after their first fuck, his respect for her was off the charts when hours later he entered the conference room with both defense teams and dozens of other officers and she _didn’t even look at him._

A woman after his own heart, she puts everything else first.

It’s the relationship he’d always wanted.  
  
And yet.  
  
Now.  
  
“Princess Allura, my squadron is ready to meet you on the frontline.”  
  
Her eyes flick to him and then away, just as she does a few screens. No more important.

His hand fists the helmet at his side.   
  
“Dismissed.”  
  
He swallows.  
  
The degradation is delicious, so much that he has to stop outside the deck and cool his hot cheek on the metal walls. But he wants more. Wants her to look at him, to grab his chin and then shove him away. To tell him how useless he’d been and then kiss him. Wants that soft-hard push-pull that she commands of him. Wants the ignoring to be acknowledged. Wants her to not want him. 

He’s good now.

But this is bad.

When things get busy and she doesn’t call for him, he finds himself in empty storage rooms anyway, cock in his hand, eyes rolled to the back of his head, thinking of her. Needing the unfulfillment. Needing the _need._ _  
_ _  
_ There’s a word for this.   
  
“Masochist.” Ryan nods at him.

Yeah, that’s the one.  
  
“You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Maybe.” James agrees with him, head resting on the punching bag as Kinkade takes shots. He holds it steady, holds himself steady.  
  
“You should take it easy. There are no threats now.”

“Maybe.” He agrees again.  
  
Ryan lowers his arms, gloved hands hitting his thighs with a smack. James finds he misses the feel of the punches vibrating from the bag to his cheeks.  
  
“If you only do it for the struggle, you’ll end up killing yourself.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
He wonders if this is how Prince Lotor went nuts.

* * *

  
  
Instead of cleaning up and leaving, his hands press her curls flat, away from her cheeks, as she pants into his chest.

She’s bare; naked skin pressed against his half-on-half-off flight suit.

His thumb catches a wetness on her cheeks. He can’t tell if it’s tears or leftover from when his fingers were buried in her cunt.  
  
“What was it?”  
  
His voice breaks the darkness of the room, but it doesn’t feel unwelcome.  
  
She doesn't answer for a long time. Long enough that he wonders if she's asleep or pretending to be.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
She sounds so far away, even though he feels her lips move against his throat.  
  
“Do I look like him?”  
  
Her fingers roll across his sternum, dragging. He’s ready for the punishment; if that’s what she’s gonna give him.  
  
Again she takes a long time answer. He uses the time to memorize the feel of her skin, the smell of her, just in case.

Last time and all. 

“No.” Her breath is hot as she sighs. “Maybe in profile. But no.”  
  
He nods, thoughts of him with purple skin dashing from his brain.

“You…”  
  
Eyes find him. Pink and blue and damn, _look at her_. How was he ever supposed to please someone like this? How was he ever supposed to reach her level? It was invigorating, to have something finally be unachievable.   
  
“...sound a little like him.” Allura frowns. “But that wasn’t it.”  
  
“What was it?”  
  
He sees the tears form and wipes them away easily.   
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t apologize.” It’s the only thing he’s ever told her to do.  
  
He kisses her forehead again.  
  
"What was it?"  
  
“You… when you helped me from the ship.”  
  
He has to wrack his brain for the instance she's talking about.

“You pulled me down. Said,”  
  
_“I have you, princess._ ” He repeats it.  
  
She says nothing.  
  
And then he’s above her.

Allura’s head falls to the sheets as he pulls himself to his elbows, arms on either side of her. He meets her confusion with anger, not angry with her, no, but at everything else that wasn't her.

A woman so above, so unreachable, so deserving, so out of everyone's league including his own; and its _common decency_ that reminds her of _love._

God, he might not be the best (he was) but the paladins were useless.  _  
_  
It didn’t matter if it wasn’t about him.  
  
If no one would give her what she deserved, he would.  
  
“James?”

He dipped low, kissed her lips, her cheeks, her ears, her neck. Kissed her with everything he'd learned. With everything she'd taught. He nibbles her jaw and licks her neck.   
_  
“James.”_  
  
He could be good at this.  
  
For her, he’d be good at everything.  
  
And if he wasn't — he'd enjoy every second of trying to be. 


	2. bad at this (finally)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have been updated please be warned lol.

As it turns out, the guy is tall.

Prince Lotor.

James compares their heights in the elevator shaft up to the bridge of the Atlas. His head reaches his chest, maybe, and even then Lotor’s arms are long, with claws much like the other Galra he’d met.

And he can’t confirm if she was right or not. He doesn't look at his own profile enough to recognize the one he stares at now. Maybe there’s something in the edge of Lotor’s hairline. It's clean and crisp like they both know what the edge of a razor on skin feels like.

He’s handsome. They both are.

Lotor catches him staring.

James doesn't stop.

Keith eventually notices the two looking at each other.

“Officer Griffin has been captaining the new MFEs that Commander Holt built.”

Keith gives his smile to Lotor. It's weird to see the introverted former rival from his childhood smile at all.

They like him. Respect him. Makes sense. From what he’s seen, Lotor is every bit the ‘Prince’ she had deemed he was in her reports. Especially after his redemption filled return in the hours of need.

Lotor is about to sweep into a bow, about to say something like ‘Thank you for your service,’ like people do on airplanes.

“I work under Princess Allura.”  He can't help himself.

The Prince stops. His words are slow.

“You must be efficient then.”

“I take my job seriously.”

He’s not angry.

To him, there hadn’t been any complicated feelings about the complexity of their relationship. That had been the point.

And yeah, sure, they had been fucking for months, had fucked the day _before_ the Prince had arrived, even, and now, since, they hadn’t even seen each other but—

He wasn’t angry.

Who exactly was he supposed to be angry with?

Her? Himself, maybe?  
  
But he can’t manage either. Because when he sees her on the bridge he can’t blame himself, couldn’t blame anyone for doing anything the woman says. _Look at her._

And he can’t be angry at her.

Because the look she gives the taller, longer-armed, Prince, isn’t one he’s seen under fluorescent lights before.

“Lotor.”  
  
And that’s not something he’s heard her say outside of storage closets and bedsheets.  
  
“Princess.”  
  
He turns to Lotor, and catches his profile as he responds. Brows drawn, eyes low, smile pained.

There it is.

The likeness.

James stares at himself respond, stares at the same feeling he’d felt but not seen, and who, honestly, should he be angry with?  
  
When they were all the same person?

So he tells him.

Prince Lotor.  
  
He waits until after the briefing. After an hour of conferences between paladins, coalition, generals, researchers, squadrons and caught gazes of trepidation and longing between Prince and Princess in between screen rotations and raised hands.  
  
It wasn't actually hard to get the man’s attention.  
  
Lotor looked straight to him after everything, meeting a gaze James hadn’t dropped from the start.

They stand, alone, in an empty ammunitions storage. Not one he’s fucked in. Specifically.

And to Lotor’s credit he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t get angry. Doesn’t anything.

There is a tiredness in his eyes that James feels. Whether that’s exhaustion as victims of war, crawling back from interdimensional rifts or battlegrounds, or that never-ending cycle of being the best, of being good at what everyone else was bad at. Self set standards you would always fall short of because it was yourself moving the bar.  
  
So it shouldn’t be surprising when Lotor doesn’t react. And it’s not.  
  
“Thank you, general Griffin.”  
  
“Officer.”  
  
Lotor nods, like this entire conversation was only about the difference between Galra rankings and Earth ones and not that James had been fucking Allura at her request, and letting her call him _Lotor._  

“Thank you Officer, for telling me… but, it isn’t—” Lotor looks away, looks strained. There's a smile there buried under a frown. A look of fondness buried in regret. “I have no reason to garner your responsibility for her, as gracious as your offer is by leave of admitting it to me. These things are private between you two.”

Lotor talks like Hamlet, and it takes all of his high school literacy cognizances to catch up because it sounds nothing like the response he expected.  
  
When Lotor’s gaze comes back, it’s a guilty one. An embarrassed one.  
  
“The Princess and I were never engaged in relations.”

What the fuck?  
  
“We shared a moment. A kiss.”

And then he’s not sure what's more baffling.

The fact that these two had never interacted more than simple flourishing flirtations, when he, James, had taken their initial fucking ‘moment’ of all things to the most extreme lewd experiences. Or that it was at the behest of Allura who, obviously was experienced (inexperienced?) in exactly what she wanted from him.

She’d taken advantage of him.  
  
His cock pulsed in his uniform.  
  
He always knew that, of course—but not like this.  
  
He’s been playing into her sick fantasies of a man she’d never actually had.  
  
Damn.

He shivered.  
  
“Alright.” He nodded.  
  
“Thank you, for being there for her.”

James looked up at the man. Again, not at all the response, he expected, but he wasn’t surprised. Or disappointed.  
  
Because at that moment it was Allura who Lotor more resembled. James could see the pink in the purple. As much as their noses or jaw shaped seemed similar, it was Allura James saw now. That dignified, steady, high-class bred integrity of someone not ashamed of what they’d done, but shy in some way — for shyness sake. Shy for James’ sake.    
  
“Yeah.”

* * *

So when the team takes bets on the dart board in the locker room, he takes bets on days. 

Three, or four maybe.  
  
It would’ve taken him one or two.  
  
“Come on Griff, I thought you were the best at this.”  
  
But if learning the curves of Allura’s cunt had taught him anything, it’s that she had more restraint than him. And if Lotor was like both of them, that averaged out their inevitable reunion to three or four.

His dart thunked into the center bullseye.  
  
Nadia cursed.  
  
He aimed the other.  
  
Then again, it had already been four days since Lotor arrived, and two since his confession.  
  
Another bullseye.  
  
“I told you not to bet.” Ryan shook his head at Nadia.  
  
“Maybe we should get some of those paladins in here, even the teams out.”  
  
“Dart teams consist of even numbers and there are five paladins and four of us.”  
  
“Ina, you aren’t including Veronica.”  
  
“She never attends.”  
  
He aimed his last dart.  
  
“I don’t know about darts, but we should invite them out this Friday. Veronica would come to a party.” Ryan said.  
  
“That is a supreme idea. James are you up for hanging out with us low-lives again or...” Nadia waited until his arm pulled back to make his move. As if to throw him off. “Are you still busy being _busy_ ?”  
  
“Not anymore.”  
  
“Dumped?”  
  
The rest of the squadron went quiet.  
  
Bullseye.  
  
“Something like that.”

Friday means an extra three more days.

He fills them with drills, workouts, and research. And sleep, finally.

But his drills are tedious, his workouts listless, his research distracted and his sleep edged with lucid memories of much more challenging efforts. Hidden away in bathroom stalls and empty bridge rooms, where his rewards had been noises of pleasure.   
  
He’s bored.  
  
So, things are back to the way they used to be before her.

Good at literally everything once more.  
  
Boring.

And he still gets that rush of endorphins when he sees her too. Though she’s trying to avoid that situation altogether. Twice in the week, he’d walked into rooms just for her to leave, shoving her face into a tablet or a folder in order to not look him in the eye.   
  
It would be hurtful or annoying if he wasn’t turning out to be a sick fuck that liked the mistreatment. He got hard every time she bypassed him completely, and even more so when she couldn’t leave and had to spend the entire meeting pretending he _didn’t exist_ —or better yet, if _he, Lotor_ was there too. Worse still if she had to say that name.

Maybe this was heartbreak.  
  
He’d never been dumped before.  
  
In fact, he’d never broken up with anyone either, if you could call it that. He’d always done what she was doing. No response had always been the best response to his others. Others. Not significant ones.  
  
Of course, the people he’d let fade into the archives of ‘read’ text messages had never fucked him more than once. And they had all wanted _him_. James.

How boring was that?  
  
Maybe about as boring as beer pong.

“It’s all about geometry, actually, by determining the trajectory, you’re actually just making a hypothesis based on whatever the diameter is for the triangles made by the cups.” Katie Holt curved her hand, tongue poking from her mouth.

He threw back his bottle to coat his throat in alcohol.

Her ball landed in Nadia and Ryan’s center cup.  
  
“What the hell!”  
  
“This is supposed to be more fair, not less fair!”  
  
“Nice shot!” Hunk high fived the girl as Ryan picked up the cup and cheered it toward Nadia. James took a sip of his own.    
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Yup.”

“She is correct, it is a mathematical problem,” Leifsdottir said beside him.  
  
“Can you guys stop nerding up the party? It’s a _party._ ” Lance answered from his other side. Between them, James tilted his eyes to the ceiling as he drank, gulping fast. “We haven’t been able to go to a party in, like, forever.”

“You mean you’ve never been to one.” Pidge snickered.  
  
“I went to plenty of parties, actually!”

“I never saw you there,” Nadia said.  
  
“Well, they, uh, they weren’t Garrison parties.” Lance leaned on the table, leering at Nadia. “Besides, I lied, we went to like, a ton of parties as paladins, didn’t we guys?”  
  
Hunk and Pidge were frowning.  
  
“No,” Keith answered across them.  
  
“Keith, come on, what the hell!”

His bottle was empty.

James sighed.  
  
Friday. Eight days.  
  
It had to have happened already. More than once.  
  
Probably happening right now.  
  
“Whatever, deny it all you want but you were just as much a popular-pretty-boy as James!”  
  
His name made him look up. Made everyone look at him. But Lance was yelling at Keith.  
  
“That’s not true, and how would you know anyway!?”  
  
“We were rivals, remember? Riiiiiiiigghhhhhvaalllllssss!”  
  
“I’m getting another drink.” He said, turning from the group to head back to the kitchen.

He nearly walked into Veronica.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Jesus. That glare. Sharper through her lenses almost.  
  
“What are you drinking? Sours?”  
  
Was he? He didn’t even know. He lifted his bottle to read it.  
  
“No. Ribbon.”

Veronica rolls her eyes but he’s too listless and too bored to bother arguing about his tastes.  
  
“Let me get you another, I was gonna refill too.”  
  
“No, I’ll do it.”  
  
“Don’t start that cocky stuff with me, alright?”  
  
God dammit.  
  
“Then come with me, Veronica— _fuck_.” He bit, stepping past her completely and pushing through the living room. It’s a struggle to get down the hall and it’s worse in the kitchens, if only because the music from the front room is deafening. A vibrant thud of house music in a house party that’s so cliche he can practically smell _high school_ in the air.  
  
“Slow down, James, come on,” Veronica says somewhere behind him as he rounds the counter and finds the ice chest. “What is with you?”  
  
“Here, sours—” he tosses her a bottle she catches easy.  
  
“James.”  
  
But he ignores her, turning around in place before spotting the trash can. It’s overflowing. He glares.

James dips low to open and close cupboards.  
  
“What are you doing? Oh.” She asks, answering herself when he yanks out another trash bag and snaps it open in the air. Veronica continued to stand there with a frown and a cold sour in her hands as she watched him drop his bottle in and a few empty ones from the counter too. Cleaning up.   
  
He ties the bag to some drawers and then pulls out his wallet, skimming through his cash. He slides that in the drawer too, so the owner finds it in the clean up the next morning.  
  
“It’s not a bar.” She tells him, brows cocked. “You don’t have to show off, _everywhere you go,_ you know.”  
  
“You’ve obviously never hosted one of these things before.” He shakes his head, remembering sobering mornings of un-sober cleaning. There never was friends around for that, was there?  “Whatever. I’ll see you.”  
  
“You’re leaving?” She only just realizes.

“Yeah.” He stuffs his wallet in his jacket and tries to move past her.  
  
“You can’t leave, we’re celebrating.”  
  
James almost laughs at her, but instead just glares.  
  
“Celebrating for what?”  
  
“The team never got to after the invasion. Or even after the prince came back. We should all take the time. We have to.”  
  
The Prince. James swallows. He can still taste glass and hops.  
  
“Sorry. I can’t do this.”  
  
“Can’t do what?” She actually sounds a bit offended. In a way it’s helpful.  
  
“This, all this shit—I can’t sit here and listen to beats, eating chips with sticky hands because someone spilled their fucking drink on the pong table.”  
  
“What in the world are you talking about?”  
  
James looked away. This place was stupid. He couldn’t sit here and pretend that everything was the same. Not after Sendak. Not after the invasion. Not after space, after Voltron. Certainly not after _her._  
  
He wasn’t sure how the paladins could.  
  
“Look, I know you’re… heartbroken.”  
  
He swallows again. This time his mouth is dry.  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“I’m not going to ask about it. I get it. It happens. Everybody gets dumped.”  
  
Not him.

Veronica puts a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off.  
  
“I’ll see you at drills.”

* * *

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he sneaks onto the bridge. 

Fucking maybe. Or at least some serious kissing. Anything. Or maybe an empty room, where he can prove to himself that they’re probably doing it somewhere proper. Like her bed or his bed. Not tables and storage closets.

He doesn’t expect to find her alone, sitting in a corner, reading tablets and organizing holo-chips.

“Princess.”  
  
It’s probably a bad sign that the jolt in her shoulders and the widening of her eyes remind him of how she reacts when she cums with his fingers in her cunt.  
  
Yeah. Heartbreak.  
  
“Officer Griffin.”  
  
His shoulders lower. Officer. It’s past midnight on a fucking Friday and she’s calling him Officer. He’s hard already.

“What are you doing here? And why—” Her eyes drop. To his feet. They trail up his body in a way that makes the back of his neck burn into his ears. “—are you—”  
  
He looks down.  
  
He’s not in uniform.  
  
The urge to feel guilty for not following Atlas protocol is eclipsed by the surging, heated instinctual cockiness at having had his _personal_ style make the Princess give him a double take. And then he doubts that cockiness. What if she hated it? Oh, god, yeah, what if he was a _failure?_   God yes, let her hate how he looks _, yeah._ He brushes a hand through his hair, feeling a wave of dizziness at the pleasure the thoughts that makes him feel.

Definitely turning out to be a weird guy.  
  
This was already getting off track. His fingertips are numb with cold but his palms are sweaty. That bottle had been one of two.

“Where’s Lotor?”  
  
The question seems to freeze the room over.

The number of emotions that flash through her face is so similar to Lotor’s from just the other day that James has to wonder if the two weren’t just playing some elaborate scheme on him.  
  
“What do you mean, I—I don’t know.”  
  
He already knows the answer, and he scoffs, probably way too loudly. Stupid beer. He looks around the room.  
  
“Excuse me?” She says, angry. Shit.  
  
But he can’t help himself, it’s frustrating.  
  
“You haven’t even talked to him, have you?”  
  
“Excuse me?” She says again, this time standing. She’s glaring at him.  
  
“Allura, you aren’t like this, don’t do this.”  
  
“You have no idea what it is I’m like.”

“Are you joking?” He has to ask, but neither of them is laughing. And she’s close enough to touch now. And he _misses_ her. Misses what she smells like. Misses trying. Misses that taste of something bigger, something beyond. Not just her cunt, although yeah, wow, he misses that too. He’s shaking his head. “I know a lot about you.”  
  
“You do _not_ — we aren’t even—we’re—”  
  
She struggles to say what, it is, they are, and he almost wants to point that out. But it’s not the point. It’s not the reason he’s here.

“I know that you’re heartbroken.” He says. “Of course you are, you thought he was dead.”  
  
Allura’s surprise lasts awhile before it's replaced with anger and embarrassment. She looks towards the doors and back at him. “Stop it.”  
  
“That’s fucking _normal_.”  
  
“Don’t be crass!” She chides.  
  
“What’s not normal is that he’s here now, and you’re sitting here, alone? Are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“James!”

There’s pink on her cheeks and in her ears. But it’s the first time he can take advantage of just watching those colors stain her expression without having to work hard at being the cause. It’s pretty.  
  
And he's not mad. He misses her but he's not mad.   
  
But if he did all that and she wasn't even happy, if they weren't finally fit together in the way he couldn't be then what was the fucking point?  
  
“What is it?” He asks. “Are you scared he won’t love you because you left him out there or are you scared because you never actually fucked him like you fucked me?”  
  
He actually hears the slap first before he feels it.  
  
It’s loud. The Atlas has a nice reverb. 

The vision of her is skewed. Her hand had tilted his cheek in its impact. He only has a moment to appreciate that Allura, an Altean, could have done a lot worse than just a little slap on the face—because then he _feels_ it.

It stings right into his teeth and rolls down his throat. It feels like a guitar pang in a song. It makes his back curl and his knees weak. It feels amazing. Fuck.

_Oh._

Yeah. Okay. He might be—  
  
_He might be into that._

He has to shake his head to snap out of it.  
  
“S-stop being crude.”  
  
“Understood,” He says automatically. His hands rub into the burn on his cheek as if to keep it there. “Princess.”  
  
Her eyes go soft. It makes the pain in his chest pull harder, raising warning flags in his head as she positions herself in front of him, uses her weight to press into his hips. She leans her head on the hand on his cheek until it diligently buries in her hair like she wants.  
  
James sighs.  
  
“Allura, hey,” He whispers quietly. She closes her eyes. “No, this is the easy way out.”

“I know, I just—” Her lips roll into her teeth. Her fingers sink into his ribs like hooks. Trapped. And then her hips slide between his, thigh brushing his hard cock and he groans.  
  
“No, come on,” He says, kissing the crown of her forehead. Then her temples, and then her cheeks. See? He had no restraint. “God, you’re such a _princess_ ,”

It’s not really a chide. And he hates himself for loving her greed. Her selfishness.

She kisses his jaw. His hands curl on her neck, holding her close but shaking his head in exasperation.  
  
Her fingers pull back his jacket. They hit one of the consoles he didn’t know was behind him. She leans him backward until his back thuds horizontally.

Her knees slide up to his waist. Her lips finally meet his.  
  
He groans.  
  
There it is again. That sugary ozone. That smell. That taste. He can’t even imagine she exists in the same reality as some stupid fucking house party.

It’s hard to keep track. The beer in his belly makes his thoughts unfocused. He’s too distracted by how endearing it is that she struggles with his belt and his button down, so used to his uniform or flight suit, that he almost doesn’t notice Lotor.  
  
Lotor.  
  
He hums into her mouth, back arching, muscles cramping as he sits up. She curls in his lap, kissing his chin.  
  
“Lotor—”  
  
“ _Yes_.” Allura moans.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
Damn it.  
  
He swallows, his hands stilling hers, pulling them away.  
  
“No, _Lotor._ ” He says again. She leans back to catch his gaze staring across the room and then jumps away altogether when she follows it.  
  
He slides off the console, keeping his eyes on the Prince’s.  
  
“She wasn’t kissing me.” He says quickly, sounding stupid but not giving a shit. “She was kissing you.”  
  
Allura’s breath hitches.  
  
To his credit, Lotor doesn’t look angry. Or shocked. As he walks closer to them James sees nothing but a content alertness. A flickering eye from between the two of them. With parted lips and relaxed, clawed hands at his sides.  
  
“Lotor,” Allura’s shaking her head. “He’s not—we aren’t—I mean,”  
  
And then she catches his eyes and cringes, looking guilty.  
  
_No.  
  
_ Don't be guilty.   
  
“She’s right, we aren’t.” He stands as tall as he can in front of the Galra. Committed despite his half-dressed, mussed-hair, blatant lie. “It’s like I told you.”  
  
“Told?” Allura’s voice is small and far away. “You told him?”  
  
“She’s just using me.” Lotor stops in front of him. “For you.”  
  
“Show me.”  
  
What?  
  
“What?”  
  
Allura says it. He has to glance at her to make sure. She’s red-faced. Shocked. Good. It wasn’t an Altean thing then.  
  
“Prince,” James shakes his head.  
  
A clawed hand curls on his shoulder. It’s heavier, hotter, than Veronica’s had been just hours ago.  
  
Lotor is all watercolor. Whites and purples. A beacon of tall confidence that reminds James of himself, with skin that looks as soft as Allura’s.  
  
“Please, Officer Griffin,”  
  
_Oh god._

Oh no.

It trembles through him in a shocking wave. His eyes go lidded and lazy, giving into that weight as he allows himself to be swiveled back toward the princess.  
  
Allura’s chest is heaving. He can see it in the stretch of her suit. Especially where he’d already started to unlatch it.  
  
“L-lotor, I, this—”  
  
“Allura, my princess,” Lotor leaves him and James has to keep himself standing. Staring. Watching as Lotor curves his hands beneath Allura’s elbows and leans over her, _looms_ over her. Shit Galra are fucking huge. “You flatter me in ways you can’t imagine, but don’t flatter me in age. I’m old enough to know the nuances of affection.”

James backs into the console again.  
  
“It isn’t—”  
  
“It is,” He reassures. He’s chuckling. His lips find the same spot on her forehead that James had. It makes him shiver to see it. Oh god. “It would not appear so convoluted to you if you saw it from the outside, just as I had.”  
  
Allura’s shaking. James is shaking.  
  
But Lotor’s voice is steady. He sounds like a Prince in the way that fairytale Princes sound like. From old cartoons and comics. He even takes Allura arm in arm, walking her back to James.   
  
“He is handsome, Princess, I’m flattered,”  
  
James sinks, eyes blurry. Talking about him like he wasn’t there. His stomach hurts with how hard his cock is and his hand presses at it on his thigh, unashamed at this point.  
  
“And as he is my unofficial stand-in,” Lotor chuckles again. It’s odd and lighthearted despite the heaviness in the air. It’s so fucking _hot_ in this bridge right now. James is sweating. “I would be putting myself at a disadvantage to not study how it is I apparently do things.”  
  
“Fuck,” James says, staring above Allura’s dumbstruck expression to the Prince’s amused one.  
  
“I certainly don’t curse.”

“Sir,” James shakes his head. “I can—”  
  
But Lotor’s hands grasp Allura’s small shoulders. And she’s in between his legs again, thighs on thighs. James glances at her heated face. Lips still swollen from their kiss.  
  
He has to crane his neck a little, with Lotor this close.  
  
Oh god.  
  
“Please,” Lotor says again. His hand pulls back locks of Allura’s hair. “Show me.”  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck—  
  
James is stiff, but his eyes find hers. And the expression she wears is a familiar one. He recognizes it the day she first started this insanity. That longing, that sweet, guilty look of a pained lack of pleasure.

He tips her head with his finger, mind yelling at him that there was someone else, another man, Prince Lotor, right there, behind her, staring.

But fuck if that wasn’t a challenge.

A test.  
  
And fuck if he wasn’t good at this.

Their first kiss is… much slower than anything they’ve ever done. It’s never been so… preemptive. The difference is palpable. But the taste is the same. And they aren’t hurrying behind some crates in-between shifts. And she isn’t crying.

She’s soft, pliant, if unresponsive at first. They keep their eyes open, assessing each other. And then James can’t anymore. Because the taste, she always _tastes_ —

His hands find her sides, her hips, her thighs.  
  
She’s still shaking, but her tongue is wet and warm, flicking over his teeth and making his ears ring. And for a moment he forgets they were ever interrupted. Forgets someone is there.  
  
Unitl a heavy hand pushes his shoulders, smashes his back into the console, and Allura’s weight is lifted from his fingertips and put into his lap. A shadow crosses above them.  
  
White hair curtains around them.  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
_Jesus Christ.  
_  
Allura moans.

Her hands work the buttons at his shirt again. He pulls away to catch his breath and to help her but finds himself staring at blue and purple gazes, both above him. A claw hits the console by the side of his head.  
  
James trembles.  
  
He helps _them_ get his shirt open. Allura presses her chest against his immediately, soaking up his warmth and burying her embarrassment in his neck.  
  
Which leaves James staring at Lotor. He heaves, feeling both of their weights pressing into his stomach. The Prince stares back, regal, excited and patient.  
  
James wonders if they look more similar now than ever before.  
  
“Help me.” James nods, hands tapping fingers along Allura’s spine.  
  
Lotor’s eyes go soft. He smiles.  
  
They pull her suit down, both of their hands sliding the fabric off her shoulders one by one. She gasps at the touches along her arms. Fingertips and nails brushing different spots on her body.  
  
“Thank you.” He says when they drop the suit past her breasts.  
  
Lotor’s hands curl around her neck and pull her into an arch against his chest. James follows them, moth to flame, seeking out her sternum to rain kisses on her bare skin.  
  
She’s shivering, but her skin is hot to the touch. Dewey.  
  
“Lotor,” She whispers.  
  
“Yes,” He answers instinctually.  
  
Lotor laughs. It vibrates through all of them.  
  
A hand delves into his hair and yanks him up, chin between her breasts, eyes on the man behind her.  
  
“Diligent.” Lotor accuses.   
  
His eyes widen.  
  
“Yes, sir,”  
  
Lotor hums and kisses a whimpering Allura on her cheek.  
  
“What’s _his_ name, Princess?” He asks.  
  
James stiffens, fuck, god, he can’t— handle all of this. And the mere knowledge of that is making it so much worse. It’s too, too much. He’s never had too much of anything. He’s never been overwhelmed. He’s never been out of his league or ill-prepared. But he is now.  
  
And it’s everything he’s ever wanted.  
  
“James.” She says.  
  
Lotor kisses her.  
  
James groans.  
  
And then it’s a mess.

They take accumulating, alternating joy in watching her squirm. James sucking at her breasts as Lotor bites nicks into her neck. Her voice changing names and noises; triggered by each kiss or caress.  
  
“Here.” Lotor will say, and James will follow his point to kiss where he’s told to.  
  
“She likes it there.” He’ll say. Returning the favor. Hands tracing a shadow up to the curve of her ear. Lotor’s long tongue dips from the hollow of her neck to meet James’ finger. Allura cries out, eyes opening and closing.  
  
Once they get her rocking back and forth on James’ thigh, things get fast.  
  
Overwhelming. Too much.  
  
They all work at James’ pants until he’s free enough. And after some frustration from everyone Lotor just rips Allura’s suit down the middle.

She’s exposed between them.

The fact that James isn’t sure whose hand grabs his cock and presses it into the heated wet of her cunt just makes him buck harder, his head even smacks on the console, legs and thighs flexing, breathing gone.  
  
If she’s trapped between them, he’s trapped _beneath_ them, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.  
  
Back and forth, back and forth, his cock slides against her, passing her entrance with a slight friction that becomes unbearable. His teeth grit. It’s so much different, so much more than their fucks before. So much longer, so much slower. So good.  
  
“Please—” He asks, not sure at who.  
  
Begging. Can’t be a good sign.  
  
“Yes, please,” Allura too.  
  
Lotor laughs.  
  
“I have never seen such impatience.”  
  
“Lotor,” They both chide the Prince.  
  
The hand around his cock squeezes and he feels the largeness of it. Knows whose it is. Hot and thick around him. James thrusts again, bumping into Allura’s hips and Lotor’s knees.  
  
He’s slipped inside her.  
  
“Yes!” She sighs.  
  
He starts moving, he can’t not, it’s been days without her, and he’s here, and fuck—it’s all so much, he needs to move, to feel that slick, tight, hot, wet surround him again.  
  
A hand grabs his neck, holds him pinned.  
  
“Stop.”  
  
The command sizzles in his skin. His hips jerk. He stops.  
  
“Yes, sir.” His voice is the faintest he’s ever heard of himself.  
  
Allura whines, pressing her head against Lotor’s shoulder. “Please!”  
  
She wriggles. James grunts, huffing.  
  
“Shhh, Princess." Lotor lets go of him to drape arms around her. There’s something terribly explicit at seeing how small she is in his grasp, shivering between his fingers like something caught. “Let’s go a little slower for our Officer.”  
  
James thrusts at the sentence. Heaving.  
  
Lotor chuckles.  
_  
_ _It’s too much._ James clenches his eyes shut, unable to focus on the wet of her cunt sliding past his cock to dampen his thigh and the rumble of Lotor’s voice as it thrums through everything. He’s so loud, so present.

Lotor sets the pace for them, slow and soft. A rhythmic thing of too many sensations. They try to speed up twice, but he brings them back down. Hands changing from teasing caresses from his claws on Allura’s breast or back, and harsh yanks or pushes on James’ shoulders or hair.  
  
It’s only when he says “Faster,” that James bites his cheek, grabs her hips, and fucks her. Fucks her like they always do.  
  
This, they know. This, they’re good at it.

They know how to angle themselves like this, know the spot where her clit rubs against the base of his dick with each pass, each thrust, each drag.

But this time.  
  
_“James,”_  
  
He sighs, breathes, nods into a kiss as she leans down for him.  
  
“Yes, yes, yes—”  
  
She pulls his lips with her teeth, kisses his nose, his cheeks, his brows. Her breasts on his chest are soft, her skin, her smell mixed with the smell of sex—god—  
  
They almost can’t keep up with how _he_ made them feel

They kiss and kiss, and then it’s white on white and Lotor is there, on them, pressing her back into his chest, pressing her cunt onto his cock, pressing his lips into hers.  
  
He can feel it against his cheek. Their kiss.  
  
She breaks away to whine.  
  
He kisses Lotor.  
  
And he doesn't mean too, but he _does_. And Lotor tastes like metal, like glass, like fizz, and like Allura. Ozone and sugar, with a new tang of teeth and sweat and bitter spice. Cinnamon. A fang pulls at his lip as they break away.  
  
“Good,” Lotor whispers in his ear.  
  
James cums. It’s too much. He breaks early like a real failure and it feels so fucking good.  
  
But he holds on, pushing himself to keep his hips moving even as he cries out. Lotor helps, licking Allura’s neck and ears again and whispering sweet secrets James can’t hear until he can.  
  
“—just like that, show me how you’ve been having it, Princess, perfect—”  
  
Oh god.  
  
When they're done, breathless and sweating, it’s Lotor that pulls Allura’s hair from her face. And it’s Lotor that helps James get his clothes back on.

The two kiss some more. James watches with a strange smile on his face as he buttons his shirt.  
  
Allura gives him a few too. And she tries to apologize.  
  
“Don’t.” He shakes his head. “What for? Don’t.”  
  
She laughs into his neck, looking lost but happy, confused but relieved, shy but pleased.  
  
He shares the same expressions with Lotor.

They kiss her on each side of her head.

Allura takes off the ripped suit. Lotor gives her his waist skirt. James gives her his jacket.

The pomade in his hair is gone, he’s sweat through his shirt, and there’s cum drying on his thigh in his pants. It’s a messy, shakey, C+, maybe.

A passable, inexperienced, novice paper on what he wanted, what he knew.

What he didn’t know.

The whole thing feels like being knocked down a peg or two. Or five.  
  
There’s unachievement in front of him.  
  
Two people with worlds he couldn’t fathom.

And you know what? Good.

Let him be bad at this.

Bad at something, finally.   
  
It was the trying, anyway.   
  
The trying that made him good at everything. 


End file.
